


King's Gambit

by GoddessOfTechnology



Category: King's Quest (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Gen, Guilt-tripping, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Drug Use, manny is a bastard for 50k words straight and graham suffers for it, the chapter titles are chess terms because i'm pretentious, the effects of hypnotic powder are loosely based on the effects of deliriants, there's a lot of hurt and then the comfort is sort of all piled at the end, why is that not a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29516868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessOfTechnology/pseuds/GoddessOfTechnology
Summary: Raisin juice is sweet, almost cloying. Hypnotic powder tastes remarkably like chalk.~=~Graham has a problem - he can't get rid of the chalky taste lingering between his teeth. But that's not important. What is important is the crown weighing on his head, the kingdom that has turned to him to lead them, silent and judging his worth.It's frightening, overwhelming. But he has Manny at his side to help and guide and reassure, and that, he thinks, is the biggest comfort of all.
Kudos: 5





	1. Opening Move

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to Murphy for their wonderful betareading and moral support <3

The way it started - because there was a start, of course, a time and a place where his slow downward spiral began, a before and an after even if it still feels like forever - but the way it started was with a cup, and a promise. A promise that Graham made and regretted ever since. A cup of raisin juice laced with hypnotic powder, the first link in the chains that would later bind him. 

It's almost surreal, now, to look back and think just how careful and deliberate and elaborate the whole scheme was. How he never saw the signs. It's the kind of thing that's only obvious in retrospect, a spiderweb floating in the wind that you don't see until you've walked directly into it, threads dancing across your skin. 

He wonders, even now, how things might have been different if he'd only been a little more suspicious. 

~=~

The cup comes first, of course. Identical triplets, each filled to brimming with raisin juice. But one, undetectable, clandestine, is not like the others, laced as it is with hypnotic powder. 

It’s a simple game with simple rules. Pick correctly, and he might win the duel. Pick wrong, and he is sure to lose. A stupid bet to make, perhaps, but Graham is in a strange space, floating somewhere between exhilarated at his successes and reeling at Achaka's death. His head isn't quite in the game, instead drifting numbly in cotton wool and shock.

He takes the bet. He picks one, based on guesswork - no, on sheer random choice. He drinks from his maybe-drugged-maybe-not cup, and at the other end of the table, Manny does the same. The odds are, after all, in his favor. Maybe he’ll get lucky.

(He just wants to be done with this)

He isn’t lucky.

Raisin juice has a very distinctive taste - he's had it once or twice as a child. Sweet and cloying and slightly overwhelming, too much. This drink, however, tastes entirely wrong, like dirt and chalk, like grit that sticks between his teeth and scrapes his tongue, that lodges in his throat. That's how he knows he's chosen wrong. The growing sense of dizziness, the way his mind starts to fuzz and buzz and fog, is just further confirmation. 

The drug works remarkably quickly, the world beginning to fade around the edges, his senses dulling. There's a murmuring sort of sound in the background, faded and washed-out, words blurring into noise. He tries to catch the syllables but they slip away with ease, flickering and distant, like chasing after floating motes of golden dust, trying to catch them between your fingers.

Then Manny begins to speak, and Graham forgets everything else, unable to think of anything except how sharp and clear and crystalline it sounds, how solid, how stable and trustworthy.

_Oh_ , Manny says, as clear and ringing as a glass bell, _looks like you got the powder_. The world seems to flicker - the next moment, almost, movements briskly professional, the guards begin placing the pieces. Graham watches dumbly, feeling dazed and lost, like the world is moving on too quickly for him to follow, leaving him spinning in its wake.

And then Manny is speaking again, laying out rules and addendums and goals, and Graham finds himself hanging off of every word. The buzz is building in his skull and flickers of violet are flashing across his vision and his skin is itching and tingling, and he feels like he's sinking but he's not afraid because Manny is there. Manny will guide him. 

_Kindly move that shield to my right,_ says Manny, clear and bright. Graham complies without a flicker of hesitation, pushing his piece into place. Something nags at the back of his head, something urgent, but it's half-buried by the violet washing over him, ebbing in and out with the tide. 

_Now turn your pawn to my left._ Manny sounds positively gleeful as he gives his next order. Triumphant. It comes with a small silver flash of clarity, pinned underneath like a piece of paper under a jar, and Graham tugs at it with hazy determination. 

_Oh_ , he realizes as it comes loose, _I'm going to lose._ He should be more worried about that than he is, he thinks.

It's the last thought he has before the water closes over his head. 

_Turn that shield to the left..._

~=~

Being under hypnotic powder is a little bit like dreaming and a little bit like drowning. Dreaming of nothing and no one, drowning in silence and loneliness. He floats for a while in this empty space where his thoughts should be, and feels terribly, awfully alone. 

Eventually, the mass of sheer purple condenses into an odd sort of sense, slow and wandering and utterly delirious. He's the only sailor of a ship drifting on a violet sea, a ship without sails or helm or wind to guide her. And he spins in slow circles, meandering and pointless, and watches the sun glint lilac in the water. 

He's not sure how long he spends staring into the water - time seems immaterial, meaningless, a minute the same as an hour. But eventually he notices a shadow bobbing over the waves, the small darting shadow of some sea bird. 

It flickers in and out of sight and makes his head hurt. He wants it to stop. 

Curious, he looks up into the sky, squinting against the sun, straining to make out any moving shapes. It takes a moment - the sun's rays are nearly blinding. But eventually he spots the bird. 

It's a seagull, pure white from its beak to the tip of its tail. It circles around the sun, round and round and round - he tries to follow it with his gaze and ends up dizzy for his trouble.

"Cut that out, would you?" he snaps at last, irritated - staring into the sun is hurting his eyes. With a mocking screech the seagull obliges, alighting on one of the empty booms. It does so with a flutter of feathers that feels sharp, dangerous, and it watches him with an evil glint in its green eyes. It makes him tremendously uncomfortable, he finds. Graham wants it gone wants it gone wants it-

The seagull _screams_. 

It screams, long and loud, more like a human than a bird, a scream that raises the hairs on the back of his neck. It screams and screams and screams until his ears ring, until they bleed. It's a terrible sound, tortured and anguished, an awful premonition of doom - he falls to his knees and covers his ears and screams as well.

The seagull stops, eventually. He does not. He keeps going, on and on, until his throat feels raw, unable to stop. Never able to stop. He feels like he'll go on screaming for years and years and years, and no one will hear him but he'll scream all the same. 

Eventually, the seagull tires of his noise. Silent as death, the horrible bird dives to pluck his eyes from their sockets. Graham makes no move to stop it, immobile as it jabs its beak into his eye. 

It doesn't hurt at all, he finds.

~=~

Somehow, the ship and sea fade away, to be replaced by a board littered with pieces. It's both agonizingly slow and alarmingly quick, as he emerges from one layer of fog into another. There's a lingering terror in the background that has him searching his memories, trying to remember what he saw, what terrified him so, but the images are already fading and crumbling into nothing, and he abandons the effort. 

There's more important things to be paying attention to, anyways. The duel, for one. 

Graham has learned some things while he was drowning in violet. He knows the rules of the game, knows how to read the pieces, can map out future moves and their consequences. A glance shows that he has no chance of winning: one more move and Manny will be in a victorious position. The most he can do is delay the inevitable. 

_Oh_ , he thinks, still half-numb, _I've lost_. Then: _mom will be disappointed_. Somewhere in the mess of his muddled head, he's aghast at his own stupidity, of gambling away his already-doubtful chances of winning for...what? To save face? To show he was capable? What a laugh. 

Thoroughly disgusted with himself, he reaches for his pawn, moving to topple it - it's not like he has a chance at winning. There's no point in continuing. Better to yield now so he can retreat and lick his wounds -

An armored hand wraps around his wrist, stopping him. Graham looks up into Manny's face, surprised. 

Manny just looks at him for several moments, before letting go of him. "Guards," he says softly. "Please reset the board for another game."

Another…? _What?_

"But I lost," he says, and winces. His words taste dusty and bitter, and the inside of his mouth feels oddly numb, cottony. Filled with fluff and chalk. 

"Under the influence of hypnotic powder," counters Manny, without a single harsh note in his voice. "Hardly fair."

"Does it matter?"

"Of course. I just wanted to make things interesting," Manny says gently. Around them, the guards reset pieces, take away the goblets. "But it would be cruel of me to ruin your prospects for a bit of fun, my friend. No, a rematch it will be, on an even footing."

Graham opens his mouth to protest, to say something, but before he can the guards step back, and the game is on once again.

Graham has learned some things while he was drowning in violet. He knows the rules of the game, knows how to read the pieces, can map out future moves and their consequences. Playing against Manny is challenging but not hopelessly so - his friend is smart but lacking foresight, prone to the occasional silly blunder.

The second game lasts longer than the first - it takes time to set the ideal trap. But eventually Graham backs Manny into a corner, shields in perfect position, and with a tap of his finger he skewers Manny's pawn where it stands. A small _twang_ of the tiny bow and it's over. It's done. He's won. 

Such little effort for such an important victory. 

He's distracted afterwards by the congratulations, the guards notarizing his victory. Distracted by the thrill of winning. He doesn't see the quiet, secret smile playing under Manny's helmet. 

(Graham has won, but his is a small triumph. There are bigger games afoot, games he's not aware of, with higher stakes and worse odds. 

The penalties of losing those are far worse than a little humiliation. But, so far, he's falling directly into his opponent's traps, and the odds aren't in his favor)

~=~

Graham is lost for a while after that, drifting in the haze of his victory and the lingering pulsing of a headache. But at some point he's pulled out of his half-dream by someone pulling on his shirt sleeve, demanding his attention. 

It's Manny. The realization sparks an odd sort of feeling, a mix of gratitude and trepidation and stars know what else. Graham wants to celebrate and lie down in equal measure, but he does neither: instead, he turns around, feeling absurdly guilty, and waits for his verdict. 

"Congratulations," says Manny. Graham can't make out any sarcasm in his tone, but then again he's never been good at spotting these things. "An excellent play, especially for a complete beginner."

That's a promising start. Graham smiles, but it doesn't come out quite right. "I thought we were competitors," he says, only half in jest - the other half is true, honest fear, shivering gently. 

Graham had few friends as a child - he was always too annoying, too overbearing, too _much_. One thing he's learned the hard way is that competition has a way of ruining friendships, of driving a barrier between yourself and others. They bear the slight like a grudge, holding it against you. They walk away hissing curses between their teeth. 

And a part of him, a childish clingy part, is afraid that Manny will do much the same. Maybe Graham's half-joking reminder will be enough. Maybe Manny will remember what he lost, will finally realize that Graham has the knighthood and he doesn't. 

But Manny laughs, a welcome sound, and his tone doesn’t suggest a morsel of ill-will. "Oh, what's a little competition between friends? Forget all about it. Besides," and here his words take on a serious tone, "if there's anyone who deserves the knighthood, it's you."

There's an odd lump in Graham’s throat. He swallows past it with difficulty, forces himself to regain his composure. For the moment he's utterly speechless, unable to find any suitable words of thanks.

"...Thank you for the second chance," he says a little awkwardly. It feels strange, to know that he's won largely through Manny's generosity. Graham had gambled and lost fair and square, and still Manny gave him the space to win. 

( _For a bit of fun_ , he said. The words ring oddly in his head, but he doesn't have time to examine them)

"What are friends for?" says Manny with a shrug, and Graham tried to ignore the odd jump in his chest at the word _friend_ , tried to silence the little voice in his head that shrieks _me, me, he means_ me. It's with limited success - he can feel excitement bubbling under his skin, threatening to leap out. 

"Of course," he says, trying to curb his enthusiasm. It's easier than it would normally be, he finds - he feels _tired_ , exhaustion dragging at his bones. On reflex he looks up at the sky, notes that twilight is already falling, in gentle increments of cold pale blue. He needs to find lodgings and _sleep_.

(For the first time, it sinks in that he's going to _stay_ here. The thought still feels a little surreal)

Yawning, he moves to excuse himself, but Manny reaches out and places a hand on his wrist. Something about the gesture stops Graham in his tracks, makes him pay attention to every word Manny says. 

This time, his message is short. "Remember," says Manny, sounding terribly earnest, "if ever you need some help with something, come _directly_ to me."

The words tug at something inside him, and Graham finds himself agreeing before he can stop himself. "I will," he says, and it feels less like a placating acknowledgment and more like a promise. Like something he's prepared to do. 

But then, that just means he trusts Manny. Trusts his friend with his troubles. Manny isn't the sort to say things unless he means them. It's kind of him to offer his help, and Graham would be rude to act otherwise. 

_What are friends for?_

Graham smiles, big and bright and wide. His mouth tastes like chalk, grit sticking to his teeth. That’s odd, he thinks, he can’t remember why that is.

...It probably doesn't matter. 


	2. Weak Square

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Murphy for betareading. The green ice scale is loving borrowed with permission from gerbiloftriumph's fic here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21173510

Graham barely has time to say goodbye to his friends before No1 pulls him away, insisting that they have to see the king, at _once_. And, of course, Graham can’t say no to that.

They walk down paths draped in deepening blue twilight, the air sparkling with lazily drifting fireflies, frogs croaking throatily in the shadows. No1’s strides are long and fast and Graham struggles to keep up, tripping over his own feet in his clumsy, half-numb haste. 

The moment he enters the castle, Graham can feel the deep misery that has settled into the castle’s bones. The guards he passes walk in solemn silence, their strides heavy and slow. The candles burn low, shedding almost no light at all. His own footsteps feel loud and harsh against the stone - speaking louder than a whisper feels like it would be inappropriate. It’s suffocating and depressing and oppressive, like walking through fog. 

As he draws closer to the throne room, his nerves grow increasingly worse, until he’s standing in front of the door with his hands shaking. Heart hammering in his throat, he walks into the throne room, and nearly halts in his shock.

He was warned, of course but only in the abstract. King Edward looks far worse than he expected, and it’s almost shocking. Dull, haggard, the king looks like he’s drowning in grief. His eyes are tired and filled with a permanent sadness, only emphasized by the flickering candlelight. In one hand, he holds a sword, and the blade shakes in his grasp.

Graham can see, now, why Daventry is in such a state.

“Sir Graham,” greets the king, voice fractured and exhausted, like he barely has the breath to speak. No1 nudges him none-too-gently, and Graham realizes he’s staring. He forces himself forward, kneels on the red, dusty carpet - the dust clings to his knees, fluffy grey on blue. 

“Your Majesty,” he says, trying desperately to remember the manners his father drilled into his head. It’s difficult - his head is uncommonly foggy, like it’s filled with lilac cotton wool.

The accolade itself is rushed, hasty, passing by in a blur. No one seems to pay much attention to him, entirely focused on running through the motions, motions that Graham follows blindly, No1 hissing instructions in his ear. There are just a few snippets that remain in his memory - the feeling of raspy carpet under his knees, the aching exhaustion in his bones, the sword shaking in the king’s grip as he bestows the title of knight, the glint of candlelight trembling on steel.

“Rise, young knight,” the king says, both an eternity and a moment later. Graham does, feeling oddly empty. Underwhelmed. It doesn’t feel quite real, in that moment, doesn’t feel stable; a part of him can’t help but think _is that it?_

The king’s hands are still shaking. “Welcome,” he says. “And congratulations.”

Graham isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing at all.

“I’m afraid the road ahead for you is not an easy one, Sir Graham,” he continues. His words ring heavy in Graham’s skull, like the clanging of some monstrous church bells. “You are, after all, most likely the next in line for the throne.”

“I hope not to disappoint, Sire.” 

King Edward gives him a considering look. “I have heard that you have a good heart,” he says after a moment, nodding. “You have far to go, but the potential is there.”

Graham isn’t sure what to say. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

King Edward looks at him for a long time. When he speaks, his voice is deathly serious. “The kingdom depends on you, Sir Graham,” he says. “Please, do not fail.”

His mouth goes dry - he can’t breathe. “I’ll try my best,” he hears himself say, distant, and though King Edward doesn’t look particularly moved, he waves a hand, and Graham knows he is dismissed. 

Afterwards, voices soft and gentle, Kyle and Larry lead him away, muttering explanations that he couldn’t follow and words of concern that he ignored. They take him to some small rooms in some out-of-the-way corridor - his personal quarters in the castle, a bonus of sorts for all those lucky enough to earn a knighthood. The room is dark and barren and empty, the air smelling of dust, enough to make him sneeze. 

He doesn’t have the strength to care, though. He’s so exhausted that he only just manages to shed his cloak and boots before crashing into bed.

~=~

_A blur of flame, a rumbling roar, the stones shivering under his feet -_

Graham wakes up with a violent start, ears still ringing with his own dreamscape screaming. For a moment, he’s not sure where he is, fear gripping him, twisting him inside out. The barren stone walls, the motheaten sheets, the distinctly humid air, all feel terribly unfamiliar, completely unlike home.

Then his brain catches up with his senses, and he remembers. 

(Firefly-laced paths, guttering candles, a sword shaking in a dying king’s hand. _The kingdom depends on you,_ and the words seem to ensnare him, lavender silk ribbons winding tighter and tighter. _Do not fail._

Don’t think about it. Later, later, leave it for later.)

Wincing, he untangles himself from the sheets with difficulty. He feels abjectly _terrible_. His head is pounding and his mouth tastes like dirt and he feels like he hasn’t slept a wink. His skin _itches_ , like there are spiders crawling up and down his arms, creeping under his clothes, and he reaches up to scratch at his shoulder, automatic, unthinking.

The movement sparks pain, horrible, stiff pain, and he hisses and curls in on himself. Gritting his teeth, he more-or-less flops out of bed, stumbling erratically - his muscles feel stiff and tight, like he’s trained all day, but his thoughts are blurry and he can’t yet remember all that happened to him.

The pain ebbs back and forth, like the ocean’s tide. He blinks and realizes just how it all seems to gather and spark along his side - it throbs and burns something fierce, like there’s an actual injury there instead of just stretched muscles. 

There’s a mirror in one corner, faintly dusty. Now seriously concerned, he staggers over to it and lifts his shirt, hiking it up under his armpits - 

\- and freezes. 

Bruises. Bruises painted over his skin, splotching over his ribs, curling around his side to the middle of his back. Ugly mottled purple things. He stares at them in the mirror and tries to figure out where they came from. Surely he'd remember something like this, wouldn't he, surely-

 _Achaka_.

Something freezes in his chest, deathly cold. He freezes likewise, staring blankly at the mirror, at his own reflection - but there is no mirror, not now, because he can remember everything with perfect clarity. The dragon, the fire, the sound of armor scraping on stone, the smell of cooking flesh. His own scream ringing in his ears, dreamscape fragments given life.

It's like he's back in the cave again. Clinging to a rope for dear life, swinging through a wall of flame. He slams bodily into solid rock, and it _hurts_ , but it doesn't matter, not at all, because the dragon's chosen another target, and then Achaka is flung to the ground, and his armor is scraping and clattering on the stones and he's struggling to stand but he's not fast enough and all Graham can do is _watch_ -

_Stop that._

His breathing is too shallow, too quick, and the world is starting to feel numb and hazy. Graham tries to even out his breaths, tries to focus on the feeling of his lungs expanding, tries not to think about rocks and fire and death. He hisses air through his teeth and presses a hand to the bruises, leaning into the pain. It helps a little, scorching away some of his panic. 

In a further effort to distract himself, he returns his attention to the mirror, tracing the edges of the bruises with his fingertips. With a jolt he notices small flicks of burns along his hands, his neck, singing his hair, little marks of the dragon’s flame. A particularly shiny one curls at the nape of his neck, half-hidden by his cowl. It doesn't hurt until he pays attention to it, and then it burns and burns and burns, quietly aggravating. 

He...he didn't know. He genuinely didn't realize. 

Suddenly feeling sick, he drops his shirt - he doesn’t want to look at them anymore, doesn’t want to see them, doesn’t want to think about them. It’s better like this, with them hidden under fabric. If he can’t look at them, he can just pretend they aren’t there at all.

His side aches as he pulls on his cloak and boots - but that’s fine. Just stretched muscles. Nothing more than that.

(His hands are shaking. It’s fine. He’s _fine_ )

~=~

It takes several minutes of wandering aimlessly through the corridors before he feels...not normal, nowhere close, but less numb. The pain eases as he walks, until there’s just a sharp twinge in his side every few steps, a lingering stiffness in his joints. There’s still fire dancing at the edges of his mind, but if he focuses, he can force himself not to think about it. Don’t think about it. It happened, it’s over, and maybe it still feels unreal but he can unpack that later, always later, and maybe if he keeps delaying it he’ll never have to face it at all.

He doesn’t mean to nearly run into No1. As it is, he dodges by the narrowest of narrow margins.

“Hello, Pockets,” No1 says. There’s something tense in his tone, something that has Graham straightening. “I want a word with you, if I could.”

“Of course.”

“You have just a few days to get yourself situated,” No1 says. “On Friday, you have to begin training with me - a refresher course, nothing more - and afterwards you’ll be very busy indeed. If it would help, I can give you a brief tour of the castle today so you don’t get easily lost.”

He wants out, more than anything else, can’t take much more of these stone walls. “Thank you. Maybe later?”

“Of course.” A moment of silence. “If I may,” he starts, and Graham listens intently. “His Majesty expects much from you,” says No1, every word weighing heavy, dripping with something sharp. “I suggest you practice _discipline_. Cheating works in a pinch, but it only takes you so far.”

Graham just nods, silent. He’s all too glad to leave, muttering some excuse - No1’s steady, judgmental gaze seems to burn him as he walks away, too quickly.

He needs to get out of here. This castle is already driving him mad, sadness seeping into his very bones, and his head is spinning with anxious thoughts and _the kingdom depends on you_ and _do not fail_ and _His Majesty expects much from you_. He needs the sun and the breeze and the glow of good companionship, or else he’ll keep thinking about awful things.

(His mind stutters briefly before he pushes grimly onwards)

~=~

It’s sunny outside, the birch trees fluttering gently in the wind, and it’s amazing how that improves his mood, until there’s nothing but a quietly anxious buzz at the back of his head that he can ignore with relative ease. The fresh air and the warm sunlight chase the lingering cold from his bones - he doesn’t quite skip up the stairs to the Hobblepots’ shop, but he does manage a smile as he walks through the door.

“Graham!”

At first glance, Muriel doesn’t seem to be home. But Chester is there, eyes shining brightly, next to a bubbling cauldron. He seems overjoyed to see Graham, practically bounding towards him.

“Graham, boy,” he says in an undertone, almost conspiratorial. There’s a vial clutched between his fingers, filled with a greenish, evil-smelling liquid with fumes that worsen Graham’s headache. “Sir Boy. You wouldn’t mind lending a hand, would you?”

Graham blinks, taken aback. “Um. Of course not?”

“Excellent, excellent. Take down that jar of snake eyes for me, won’t you? It’s to your left, on the highest shelf.”

Still bemused, Graham is reaching up to do exactly that, when with a foreboding click, the door to the back room slips open. Muriel is standing on the threshold, a jar of some ingredient or other cradled in her hands, and the look she gives Chester freezes everyone in their tracks. 

“Oh, Muriel,” says Chester, looking guilty. He tucks the vial behind his back, looking guilty. Graham, sensing that he’s on thin ice, hastily lowers his arm and tries to look like he had no part in this. “We were just - ”

“No,” Muriel says flatly. “None of that. Step away from the cauldron, Chester.”

“But Muriel - ”

Her eyes flash, and both Chester and Graham take a step back in perfect sync. “Absolutely not. I’ve told you time and time again to lay off it. And now you’re dragging one of His Majesty’s knights into this silliness. For shame.”

Looking contrite, Chester takes several exaggeratedly large steps away from the cauldron. Muriel sighs tiredly, and strides over to Graham, lowering her voice confidentially. “Brilliant mind, but sometimes he gets the most foolish ideas. I’m sorry he tried to drag you into this.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he says, still confused. “Uh, if I might ask...what exactly is it he’s trying to do?”

Her expression darkens. “It’s better if you don’t know,” she says mysteriously. “Trust me.” Then, before Graham can express his concern, her eyes narrow in something like suspicion. “What’s wrong with your side?” 

Graham stares, dumbstruck. "How - what?"

Muriel gives him a searching look. "You’re favoring your side. Don't look so shocked, I’ve been treating injuries for longer than you’ve been alive.” She makes a ‘come hither’ gesture with her hand. “Show me.”

He plucks at the hem of his cloak with nervous fingers. “It’s nothing serious, honest, I don’t think - “

“Less talking, more showing, please.”

Before he knows it he's perched on the wooden table, shirt hiked up under his armpits, Muriel applying thick swatches of a greenish goop to the bruises with an expression of intense concentration (“Green ice scale,” she said at one point, “good for bruises and burns”). The goop is _cold_ , ice cold, a chill that seeps under his skin and makes him gasp and hiss. He digs his fingernails into the tabletop and shivers as his entire side goes numb.

"There we go," she says, applying the last dollop. Out of seemingly nowhere, she takes out a roll of bandages and begins wrapping his ribs, to keep the goop from staining his clothes. "Change it out once a day, please, or I won't be very pleased with you," she instructs sternly, and presses a jar of paste and fresh bandage roll into his hands. 

"Thank you." He tucks the items away in his cloak. Muriel rejects the gold coin he tries to give her, shaking her head and scowling. She does, however, notice the small flicks of burns littering his skin, and with an angry sort of sound she pushes his hands aside and sets to applying salve to those as well. Somehow, the goop feels even colder than before - he keeps flinching.

"Don't mention it. How did all that happen, anyways?" And she gestures with goop-laden fingers at where the bruising is, now hidden again under his shirt, gestures at the burns she’s tending to, small and shiny.

The awful cold feeling is back. Graham swallows around the lump in his throat. "It was...ah. In the cave. With A - Achaka."

It hurts to even think the name, let alone say it, a pain that only seems to grow worse with time. Over the past eighteen hours, a slow truth has been forming in Graham's mind, gradually crystallizing, cold and sharp: Achaka died because of him. 

It still doesn't feel real, not yet. But it's getting more and more so by the minute. 

"...I see." Muriel gives him a long look, quietly commiserative. "I meant what I said yesterday, Graham. There was nothing you could have done."

"I know." Except he doesn't know at all. He wouldn't feel so guilty if it wasn't his fault. But he can fake it, at least, and for now it's good enough. 

Muriel sighs, long and tired, before clapping her hands once and sharp. "You're all done."

"Thank you,” he says with a counterfeit smile. His skin is itching where he isn’t numb - he wants to leave. The thoughts of Achaka are churning in his head, black sulfurous smoke, sharp and choking. 

Her expression softens just a touch. “Do take care of yourself. If you want to bring change to this place, it won’t do you any good to be careless with your health.”

That’s really very touching - a warm feeling bubbles in his chest. Before he can thank her, however, Muriel briefly freezes, rigid, before turning around sharply on her heel. In the back, Chester is clutching the jar of snake eyes with frozen hands, goggling like a startled deer under her scrutiny. 

“Chester,” she growls, sounding livid, “put down that down or I _swear_ -”

As discretion is the better part of valor, so cowardice is the better part of discretion. With that thought in mind, Graham valiantly makes his exit.

~=~

Amaya’s workshop is, by contrast, far less chaotic. She’s at her counter, working on something intently, sheets of paper spread out in front of her. Alert as always, she looks up the moment he walks in through the door, and her mouth twitches in what could conceivably be the beginning of a smile.

“Well, if it isn’t his most noble sir himself,” she says dryly. “Congratulations. How does it feel?”

 _Strange. Wrong. Empty._ “About the same as before,” he says with a shrug, lying through his teeth. Eager to change the subject, he glances at the...thing she’s working on. “So, I just have to ask…” 

By now, Amaya knows what those words mean, and she gives him an exasperated look, ever so slightly fond. Graham remains undeterred, flashes her a brilliant smile. “What are you working on?”

Amaya sighs, and pushes the paper in his direction. It’s filled with a mess of scribblings he can’t hope to interpret, apart from a few haphazard drawings of some contraption with too many teeth. “Nothing too interesting, I’m afraid. You remember that knight? Waffle, or something?”

“Whisper?”

“That’s the one. Well, the fool dented his armor during the tourney, and he wanted me to fix it. When I was done, he looked at me all starry-eyed and asked me to make him a sword. I asked him if he wanted something special done, and he said no, I could do what I wanted, ‘so long as it is as magnificent as Whisper himself.’” Her impression of Whisper is scarily good.

“...Aaaand?” That doesn’t explain the number of spikes.

“Well. You know me. Always looking for a challenge, something to broaden my horizons. Ordinary swords are a solid concept, but you can always spice things up a little.”

“Ah. So you wanted to... _spike_ things up a little.”

She gives him a _look_. “Ha ha. Very funny. And no. The spikes are for something else.”

“Oh?”

“They’re for the Crumbler. For her birthday.”

“...Oh.”

“The sword is going to have _darts_.”

“Ah.”

“Precisely.” Without breaking eye contact, she tugs out one of the pieces of paper and shoves it in his direction. “Spring-loaded mechanism hidden in the hilt, can fire with a press of this button on the guard. Fires iron darts up to twenty feet. Quick to reload. It’s revolutionary.” 

_Revolutionary_ is one word for it. Graham has the sudden mental image of Whisper accidentally stabbing himself with the thing, and can’t help a small wince. “Are you sure that’s safe?”

“Oh, it definitely isn’t,” she says, taking the paper away from him. “But you can’t have everything. And besides, he’s the one paying for it.” She leans her hip against the worktable, considering. “Now, as interesting as my work is, I don’t think that’s the reason you came here. Aren’t you supposed to be at the castle?”

“I wanted to get out of the castle for a bit,” he says, trying not to sound defensive. “Number One said it was okay. I couldn’t...well.”

“Something wrong with it?” She’s entirely too perceptive.

Lots of things, really. The quiet, the cold, the damp, the heavy misery that must have enshrouded the castle for years, ever since Her Majesty died. It feels like he’s drowning in sadness whenever he walks across its threshold. 

“It feels kind of lonely,” he says at last. “Closed in,” he adds, so he doesn’t sound too fanciful. “But it’s fine. I’ll get used to it.”

“Not used to the quiet, huh?”

“I grew up with three older sisters. I don’t think much of my childhood was really _quiet_.” In fact, noise and action has always been a defining characteristic of the Cracker family - adventure seems to follow them with dogged persistence. 

“That’s absolutely fair.” She gives him an appraising look. “You know, somehow, I don’t think that’s everything. But I won’t meddle if I’m not wanted.”

“...Thank you. Maybe another time.” It’s not something he wants to delve into, not now. But it’s comforting to know that the option is there.

“Sure thing. Just take care of yourself. Remember, kid,” she says like she’s delivering some great wisdom, “the most important things in life are money and good health. All the rest of it is piffle.”

He can’t help but tease her just a bit, grinning a little mischievously. “Really? What about friendship? Happiness? Bringing joy to others?”

Her face is straight as a board, but there’s a twinkle in her eyes as she makes a ‘so-so’ gesture. “Eh. If you’re into that sort of thing, I suppose.”

He snorts in spite of himself, and forgets for a moment about dragons and fire and all his aches and pains.


End file.
